Crone

Crone

I am the voices of the Crone.

Otherwise:

who would know

that beneath this ventriculated vortex

of disintegrating flesh

these tired smiles

these lugubrious laments and

ludicrous displays

of gestures—

who would know

that I

am everywoman’s song?

I am the rose and thorn mystery

of flesh

the secret smile

the opening of all oval heart-wounds

of pleasure.

I am the silver hermit thrush

that trills a spiral fire trail

along the loins—which

explodes

conceives

inseminates the world!

Now is the ruling womb-thrust

of my voice:

a call across the immense desire

of stars

deep into earth!

A timpani—

A counterpoint of time—

epitome creation—

birth!

I am the five diminished pips

inside the apple’s core

where once

lived heart’s delusion—love—

delicious fantasies of lust

a hyperborean myth in northwind’s breath

of everlasting age

and hope.

Ah yes, you swallow but a cinquain portion

of me

you, too, may die—

a fifth of strychnic pleasure.

And yet…

these pips are seeds—

my whispered greens

my nuclei enchantments

to the nubile earth.

I am the voices of the crone…

bagpipe of all winds

and weaver

of all wombs.

For here

beneath the bones of wasteland wars

beneath the nuclear fallouts

the membrane fears

are seeds:

my everywoman canticles

of wisdom

inborn

into each pip’s

blackened shell.